Broken Record
by The Invisible Fan
Summary: It's late at night and Ken can't sleep and so he finds himself caught up in his least favorite passtime.


**Title**: Broken Record

**Rating**: PG-13

**Summary**: Forget the monster under the bed, at night is when your thoughts get you.

**Disclaimer**: Own none of the characters. Making no profit.

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The hallway was long, with many doors on either side of it. The target would be somewhere around here. Ken clenched one hand into a fist, the movement being accompanied by the soft sound of extending claws. Which door was it? Door number one? Door number two? Or perhaps door number three?

The movement of a shadow through the sliver of moonlight coming from an ajar door caught his eye. Silently he slipped over to the door. Inside he could see the target and two guards. He could handle them.

Quickly he dispatched the guards. Turning towards the target, he began close in for the kill. A shot rang out from behind him. Two more followed. He staggered back a step. Sticky blood from the exit wounds decorated his chest.

Must have been another guard...

The world swayed then faded to black.

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Ken jerked awake.

He blinked at the darkness for a moment before realizing he was in his room. His hands went to his chest, but no bandages or injuries resided there. That's right... the mission was tomorrow night. It had only been a dream. A nightmare. The words were interchangeable to him these days.

He lay there, listening to the quiet murmur of the night. Below, he could hear Yohji trying to be quiet as he staggered in. The red gaze of the numbers on his alarm clock proudly proclaimed the time as being four 'o clock in the morning. Yohji didn't have the morning shift tomorrow.

Across the hall he could hear the dull rumble of Aya snoring. As annoying as it could be at times, Ken could never bring himself to be angry with Aya for it. After all, it wasn't as if he did it on purpose. Also, it meant that Aya was sleeping peacefully. And so, Ken had learned to tune it out.

Ken wondered if Omi had fallen asleep with the radio on again. He didn't know when his friend had started listening to music when he slept. But whenever he walked past Omi's room at night he would just barely hear it. He wondered if it kept dreams away.

Ken rolled over onto his stomach, hugging his pillow. Being alone with nothing but him and his thoughts was least favorite pastime.

It was sad what his life had become, really. They expected him to be the happy one. The one who lived life to the fullest. Whenever he let his expression become neutral or blank or anything but what they expected of him, he would be constantly pestered as to what was wrong. Even if nothing was wrong. He appreciated his friends' concern, but it could get tiresome. So instead he just acted like they expected him to. Happy and full of vigor, and getting into arguments with Aya.

Sometimes he would deliberately get into an argument with Aya. It gave him a chance to get out a little frustration. He knew Aya didn't deserve his anger, and Aya usually was right about whatever the topic of their inane fight was about. While he did manage to let off a little steam, the fights left him feeling guilty. Aya didn't deserve to get yelled at, not over something so stupid. It was his fault. It was his fault for not being a naturally happy person like everyone thought he was.

He was tired.

Nineteen and his life was already over. Killing and missions were all he had left. He was supposed to be dead. The dead don't have futures. He envied the others for having official ties to the world of the living. Aya's poor comatose sister, Omi's schooling... they weren't supposed to be legally dead. He shouldn't envy them though... there had to be something he had left... Like how Yohji always held out hope for romance and dedicated himself to protecting women.

He had soccer didn't he? He had always liked soccer because it was simple and cleared the mind. When you played it you didn't have to worry about anything else. You never had to be anything. You just had to play. The team took on everything together and the only thing to worry about was whether the little black and white ball went in the right goal.

But he couldn't play soccer anymore.

He couldn't join any recreational teams, they would occasionally travel for matches and he couldn't travel because missions would get in the way. Missions came first. Coaching, while fun, wasn't the same as playing. He couldn't help but want to play whenever he watched soccer.

One of the kids called him a fossil once.

The boy had been upset with a call he had made during a game and called him an old fossil. The word had stung him. Not because of the intended meaning of calling him old, but for something else entirely. A fossil. A dead rock with the imprint of life on it. When people look at a fossil, all they see is the imprint of the life that once existed. Just like him. People only see they life that was once there, not what really exists. Any holes in this illusion their minds readily fill in, and he's never done anything to disillusion them.

After all, what is a fossil but a memory? Like an old vinyl record. The grooves on a record remember a song. Ken ran a finger along an old faded scar. The grooves on him remember violence and death.

He thought that it was sick of him that he only felt alive on missions, when death was immanent for any one of the parties involved. Things were simple on a mission, and your mind is clear. It had to be. You didn't have to worry about anything, but getting the job done and getting out alive. And even then the last part was optional. You don't have to pretend to be anything. You could let your face be blank.

After missions, he was tired. But it was the sort of tired where you fell into bed and didn't wake 'till morning. He didn't have dreams after missions. And then the next morning he would get up, pretend to be happy so his friends wouldn't worry, go through the motions of life until the next mission. Over and over again.

He was tired.

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End file.
